Authors: Gaelen Foley
Aye, this was a woman, he realized down deep in his bones, who could make a man crawl through hell on his hands and knees.
Bloody dangerous
. Without further ado, he swung the door open and nodded toward his chamber. “After you, Miss Smith.”
“But…” She turned to him, her voice trailing off in dismay at the prospect of going into his room alone with him.
A wicked smile crept over his lips. “Don’t disappoint me, my dear,” he murmured, his eyes agleam with a very personal sort of challenge. “Surely you’re not going to start acting sensibly now?”
Jacinda stiffened at Blade’s silken taunting, but could hardly take offense at his mild accusation, for he had heard the whole story from the boy’s own lips and thus knew she had been duped by a mere street urchin. Lifting her chin with what remained of her pride, she gave him a severe look that warned him— probably in vain—not to try anything improper, then bravely strode ahead of him into his private sanctuary. He watched her pass with a look of amusement.
A swift glance around revealed walls washed in the same drab hue as the hallway, and a wood-planked floor painted dark brown. There was a threadbare braided cottage rug thrown down before the brick hearth, where charcoal embers gleamed beneath the small iron kettle. Against the wall, his low cot had been turned into a makeshift tent-bed, draped with long swathes of fabric that she realized on closer inspection were fine cashmere scarves, undoubtedly stolen. They appeared of finest quality, with swirling designs of red, orange, and gold. She smiled to herself, remembering the gaudy purple waistcoat and red carnation he had been wearing the day he had come to Knight House. Other than a taste for loud colors, he appeared to live very simply. Tidiness, however, was not among his virtues, she observed as a mouse went scampering along the seam of the wall and vanished into its hole. The furniture was dusty and looked decidedly battered by the light of the candles burning in colored glass jars here and there around the room. There was a wardrobe, an abused-looking secretaire with a simple wooden chair, and a chest of drawers— upon which sat a glorious Canaletto in a gilded frame.
Her eyes widened in disbelief as she stared at the masterpiece: the gondolas on the Grand Canal, the Venetian palaces in rich tones of red and gold. Good Lord, she recognized the painting from Lady Sudeby’s drawing room! She turned to her host in astonishment as the full reality of his occupation sank in. Used goods, indeed!
Oblivious to her racing thoughts, Blade followed her into his room, locked the door, then turned and leaned against it, folding his arms slowly across his chest.
Still reeling at the audacity of his theft, she pointed in bewilderment. “That painting—?”
A ghost of something that might have been guilt flickered in his untrusting eyes. He had fascinating eyes—pale, sea-green irises rimmed by a dark band of cool, deep chalcedony. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“How did you get that?” she demanded.
“How do you think?”
She stared at him, resting her hands on her waist. She barely knew what to make of the creature. “It seems a dangerous way to make a living.”
His roguish smile made her knees go weak. “Aye, but if I die tomorrow, I’ll go knowin‘ I had a hell of a lot of fun while I was here.”
“You’re mad.”
He laughed softly. His light-tricked gaze caressed her. “I had to have it, at least for a little while. You see, I enjoy beautiful things.” He stared at her, then leaned his head back on the door and gazed wistfully at the painting. When he spoke again, for a moment, it seemed his rough Cockney accent had gone missing. “I’ll sell it soon enough, I suppose, but this one… bewitched me. Sometimes I lie on my bed staring at it until I fall asleep. Then I dream I’m there—in Venice—the blue sky, the sun on my face, the lapping of the waves.” He sent her a half smile full of wry self-mockery. “ But artists lie. No place could be that beautiful.”
“But it is.” She looked from it to him. “I have been there.”
He stared at her, suddenly on his guard.
“You don’t believe me?”
He didn’t answer.
“You should go.” She offered him a cautiously teasing smile. “You might find the influence of so much beauty elevating to your moral sense.”
He snorted. “Got no time for holidays. There’s Cullen O’Dell to contend with.”
“You’ll get him,” she said softly, then paused. “Are you badly hurt?”
He shrugged. “I’ll live.”
They stared at each other uncertainly. Magic quivered like a plucked lute string in the silence between them for that moment. The room seemed smaller, the candlelight more richly golden as it played over his wary face, sculpting its sleek planes and sharp contours. When he spoke again his tone was low, urgent.
“Who are you? I must know.”
“I might ask the same of you.”
“I asked first.”
“I’ve already told you—”
“No. No ‘Jane Smith’ wears diamonds like that. I have seen you before.”
Careful
, she warned herself, uneasily lifting her hand again to her diamond necklace. He might be illiterate, but he was sharp—clever enough to know quality when he saw it. She ventured a half-truth. “You seem familiar to me, as well, but I cannot think where or how we possibly could have met.”
He eyed her as though weighing each one of her words. “Eddie says you were hiring a post chaise to Dover, that you meant to cross the Channel.”
“That is true.”
“Why?”
“If it’s all the same to you, monsieur, I prefer to keep my own counsel.”
He tilted his head slightly, a speculative gleam in his eyes. “I have a theory. Care to hear it?”
She did not answer, but that did not stop him.
“I say you’re eloping. To Paris.”
“What?”
“I hear it’s all the rage these days among you fine young ladies.”
“Don’t be absurd! I am doing nothing of the kind.”
“No? It’s the only explanation that makes sense. I don’t know who you are, but you’re no common sort. Aye, I’m not such an ignorant brute that I don’t know this much—respectable young misses don’t set foot outside the house without their servants to protect them. Back at the coaching inn, where was your chaperon, footman, maid?“
She stood there awkwardly, no ready answer springing to mind.
“I can only conclude that either you are not respectable, which is absurd—your manner is too fine—or your family hasn’t sanctioned your choice of paramours.”
“How shockingly narrow-minded of you, Mr. Blade,” she replied with a toss of her chin. “Do you really think that all a lady’s actions can only revolve around love?”
“Don’t know. You’re the only lady I’ve ever talked to.” He gave her a reckless, haphazard grin that made her heart flutter.
She gazed at him, quite at a loss. “Well, I assure you, you are the first gang leader I have ever talked to.”
“Good! Then we will forgive each other if we make mistakes,” he said with sudden, sardonic cheer, sauntering into the room. Pulling a slim metal case out of his breast pocket, he took out a cheroot. As he bent over the candle and lit it, she did not have the heart to tell him that a gentleman did not smoke in front of a lady.
He straightened up again and turned to her, looking irresistibly dangerous with the thin cheroot dangling from his lips. “So, where’s the lucky bridegroom, eh, Miss Smith? Are you to meet him at the coast, or were you waiting for him at the Bull’s Head?” He paused, let out a stream of smoke, and added prosaically, “Was he late?”
“Blade, please. Just let me go. I have no intention of reporting you to Bow Street. Can’t you just take my word for it and return me to the coaching inn? I will be on my way, and we need never think of each other again.”
“I am not sure that is possible.” His smoldering gaze inched down her body, as shocking and tangible as touch. “Your fiancé must be quite a man to have turned your head.”
Rattled and blushing at his leisurely appraisal, she blurted out a protest, too fevered to think first. “Did it ever occur to you that my going to Paris might be to
avoid
a betrothal rather than to fulfill one—blast you!” she cried as he lifted his eyebrow with a knowing smirk. Abominable man. She snapped her jaw shut and scowled, for the beast had just tricked her into admitting her destination.
“I see. In other words—” He sauntered toward her with an intense stare. “—you’re running away from home.”
“So what if I am? I don’t see how that’s any affair of yours.” She pointed impatiently at his waist. “You know, you’re bleeding.”
“You’ll never survive. You’ll never make it to France in one piece.”
“Oh, yes, I will.”
“You were duped by a nine-year-old pickpocket, then chased him into the rookery like a damned fool.”
“Did you even pay attention to where he was leading you? You never chase a thief who robs you. That’s the way most of the murders in this city happen. Look at you.” The cheroot between his fingers, he swept a gesture from her feet to her head, scowling crossly. “You’re dressed like a princess, walking around with enough gold in your purse to get you killed thrice over, never mind the diamonds. That boy could have gutted you like a fish if he had wanted to, and—good God, woman!—do you know what would’ve happened to you if it had been O’Dell who had found you instead of me?“
“Go on, rail away.” She folded her arms over her chest and studied the wall. “You’re bound to pass out soon enough from loss of blood.”
He narrowed his eyes at her, then bent his head and moved his black leather coat aside to examine his wound. His long, tangled blond hair fell forward, veiling his face.
No wonder Lucien liked him, she thought. The brute was as domineering as any of her brothers. She winced at the sight of his bloodied shirt. “I think you had better send for the surgeon.”
“I’ll tend it myself,” he grumbled, clamping the cheroot between his teeth as he shrugged off his jacket. He nodded toward the hearth. “There’s hot water in that pot on the fire. Pour it into the washbasin over on the chest of drawers—if the task isn’t too far beneath you.”
“I suppose, this once, I can make an exception,” she said sweetly, cursing his arrogance under her breath.
Grateful for any topic to divert him from his interrogation, Jacinda did as he bid her with a handy cooperation that would have shocked her beleaguered governess, Miss Hood. She collected the empty basin on the chest of drawers and stole a closer glance at the Canaletto. The painting was bizarrely out of place in this thieves’ den, but it was truly exquisite. She turned around with the washbowl in her hands just as Blade lifted his thin white shirt off over his head.
She stopped in her tracks, nearly dropping the bowl. Firelight played across the broad, muscled splendor of his chest, powerful shoulders, and ironlike abdomen. His untamed beauty was somehow terrible to behold, smeared with the blood from the wound on his side, his lean waist still girded with an array of weapons in holsters and sheaths. Dropping his bloodstained shirt carelessly on the floor, he blotted his face with the knotted blue neckerchief loosely tied around his neck and went to the old, curve-topped trunk at the foot of his bed.
He undid the leather straps and opened it, but when he turned away, her jaw dropped at the heathenish tattoos that adorned his back and massive arms.
“Do you even speak French?” he asked without turning to her.
For a moment, she could not find her wits to reply. “O-of course,” she stammered, gazing at his fascinating body. Most of her education had been conducted in the French tongue, but at the moment, she could only recall that it was the traditional language of
amour
.
The smooth, bronzed satin of his skin had been etched with an array of swirling designs and colorful drawings that ranged from the fanciful to the humorous. Her marveling stare traveled over his painted warrior’s body. Oh, how deliciously
horrid
he was, she thought, utterly mesmerized. A crossed sword and pistol wrapped in a laurel wreath adorned his right biceps; a fire-breathing dragon coiled around his left. A Union Jack rode his left shoulder, while a big-breasted mermaid posed prettily on a rock near his right hip, but the largest picture, spanning the center of his back, showed a dark phoenix rising from flames, its wings outspread.
The dragon on his left arm stretched sinuously as he reached into the trunk and pulled out a wooden medicine box. As he straightened up again, she belatedly remembered her task. Turning away, her cheeks crimson, she hurried to fill the washbasin with warm water from the kettle, but his low, rich, pirate laughter followed her.
“Want to pet my dragon, sweetheart? ”
“You really are too crude for words,” she said hotly as he passed behind her with an easy stealth in his walk, like a great, golden leopard covered in his fantastic markings.
Chuckling, he set the medicine box on the chest of drawers. “You’re the one who was staring.”
“No. I wasn’t.” Doing her best to ignore him, she found a small towel on the mantel and folded it to protect her hand from the heat. Gingerly reaching toward the fire, she was acutely aware of him coming up behind her. Her fingers curled around the handle.
“Liar.”
Her heart pounding foolishly at his whisper, she lifted the pot out with care, the steam rising in tendrils to moisten her chest and throat and cheeks in wet swirling warmth like a lover’s breath upon her skin. Mere inches behind her, his overwhelming magnetism and the sudden wave of heat as she poured the water into the basin made her head faint. “It’s all right, you know. I don’t mind if you look at me. I’ve been looking at you.” He reached over her arm, lingering dangerously near as he took the pot out of her trembling hold; her stomach flip-flopped when their hands touched.
“Keep your distance!” she ordered, dismayed when her voice came out breathlessly. “That is—I will thank you to behave with a bit more decorum.”
“Decorum? Right.” He flicked a wary glance over her. “Look at milady, hard at work in her ball gown,” he taunted softly, his warm breath tickling her ear. “You weren’t made for doin‘ chores, princess. Allow me.”
To her vexation, she quivered even as he mocked her. Sending her a knowing little smile, he set the pot back on the fire and took the large bowl of water from her.